Hey guys! This is the third (and most likely final) installment in my series focusing on Ram's deresolution. Even though this one in particular could easily stand on its own (it is slightly different than the other two for all of the obvious reasons) to get a fuller picture of Ram (and even Tron to some extent) you should read "Survivor" and "All too human" as well. Enjoy! ~Moore12~
Another line on the wall
At first, he hadn't paid the small, lean program in the cell across from him any mind. With a cursory, judgmental glance, he calculated that he wouldn't last much longer on the inglorious and brutal Game Grid and wouldn't be of much assistance. Besides, he had a more important task to worry about than some unimportant conscript. Friendship wasn't part of his programming…
How long had it been? He had completely lost track of the countless cycles that had gone by since that day that, for the most part, changed everything for the better. Unlike his friend, he wasn't exactly keen on keeping track of cycles; that too wasn't part of his programming. And so, as he prepared to enter the new grid that Kevin Flynn had created, he had to wonder how long it had been since that day…
After awhile, he realized that the little program—whose name he had yet to learn—must be good because he always came back without fail. Sometimes, he would look exhausted; sometimes he would collapse in his cell and not move for so long; sometimes he would come back with a slightly triumphant grin on his face. But he always came back. And he always would scratch another line into the wall to join the countless others…
So much had changed since then. He had changed himself even though sometimes he didn't want to admit it. But he still remembered the little program that helped to inspire him to keep fighting for the Users even if his dream seemed all too impossible.
In deciding to approach the smaller program, he knew he had to remember that he had already tried to initiate conversation before, but he had ignored him. He walked over to talk to him, minding the force field placed in between their cells, and said softly, "Hey."
The smaller program stirred from where he was sitting in the corner, absently spinning his identity disc while staring vacantly at the wall across from him. For a moment, he was convinced he wasn't going to answer but then a small, soft voice replied hesitantly, "You're Tron, aren't you?"
Smiling to himself, he remembered the look on Ram's face when he told him that he was, in fact, the Champion of the Game Grid. His fellow conscript had smiled radiantly, his circuits brightening with pure joy. After that they became friends which was, he had to admit, a miracle given the circumstances. They were, after all, two conscripts on a Game Grid with a low survival rate, two conscripts who didn't have any guarantee that they wouldn't de-rezz before the cycle was through. Friendship was impossible on the grid, but it happened anyway.
"Why won't Alan-One do something?" he brewed as he paced around his cell, not even trying to hide his rage. "If he wants me to complete my mission for him, why won't he help me?" He had lost track of the number of cycles he had been trapped there but it seemed far too long—almost an eternity. His frustration mounting, he had exploded because of a particularly brutal light cycle match that had almost been the end of him…and his friend.
Smiling at him, in an attempt to calm him down, Ram replied worriedly, "Tron, it's going to be alright. We have to keep fighting for them." He could sense the concern in his friend's voice but he was beginning to crack and couldn't see the reason to keep fighting anymore. Sure, he had espoused to Ram (for the program's benefit and for his own) the importance of not giving up, the importance of continuing to work for the Users who had created them. But none of that seemed like it mattered anymore; no, not when he was stuck on the Game Grid with no chance of indefinite survival and no chance of completing his mission.
"That's easy for you to say!" he spat, not caring at all for his friend's feelings. "You don't have anything important to do for your User!"
There was always part of him—he recognized with a pang of regret—that always looked down on Ram. After all, he was a mere actuarial program, and he was a monitor, designed specifically to fight for the Users and to protect them against all of the bad elements of the Grid. He was even meant to monitor the MCP itself which was a vitally important task few could manage. What was Ram's purpose? He didn't even know what an actuarial program was, but he calculated it meant that the program didn't have any particularly important functions.
But he knew now, after living for cycles without him, that Ram always had something he didn't. Even if he was an inferior program in terms of function, he was far superior to even him in other respects. It was something that Alan-One had apparently forgotten to program into him, or something that had been displaced within him by his more important functions.
The smaller program fell silent, then, and, for a moment, he thought that he must have shut down. When his eyes opened again, he could see the deep, permeating sadness within them; sadness that he knew was displacing his useful cheerful and optimistic disposition. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked up at him and said softly, his voice cracking, "It doesn't matter what your purpose is. It just matters that you help the…" His voice trailed off, and he never finished his thought; instead, he opted to turn around and sit vacant silence, leaving his friend to regret everything he had said…
After that, things changed. It was hard not to notice that his friend's cheerfulness was fading into jadedness, that his happy quips were becoming more and more sarcastic. At first, he didn't want to believe that he had been the cause of his transformation; he wanted to believe that the sheer number of cycles he had been held captive there was finally taking its toll. But he knew deep down that the correlation was too precise, and he wanted more than anything to take back what he had said, what he had implied…
Then Kevin Flynn came. And Ram had known, recognized right away and he hadn't even noticed. He knew there was something different about him, he knew he was special. Ram had known because he had always truly and unconditionally believed in the Users, even if that belief had been crushed for a little while because of extenuating circumstances.
Smiling to himself, he wondered how his old friend had felt when Flynn revealed to him that his suspicions were correct, that he was, in fact, a User. He knew it would have meant so much to him, to be in the presence of one, to have one there for him while he…de-rezzed…
His friend was practically thrown back into his cell, where he promptly collapsed in a heap. No, he thought, calculating that he must be injured and, therefore, must be on the verge of deresolution. He hurried over to the divider between their cells and whispered, "Ram, are you alright?"
He could only watch as his friend propped himself up on his elbows and, using the edge of his identity disc, scratched yet another jagged line on the wall…
He didn't really know what this new grid held for him. Flynn had told him that it was going to be the "perfect" system, but he didn't fully understand the term. Based on his experiences, there was no such thing as perfect, but he was a program, and Flynn was a User, and, as Ram used to say, Users knew better than programs. "Users are Users," Ram had said once, after a particularly brutal cycle that had seen numerous conscripts de-rezzed. "They got to know what they're doing." And if he had learned anything from his old friend, it was to assume the best until the worst happened.
Even though he knew his future was bright—after all, Flynn had chosen him to help build what he knew would be a wonderful system—he couldn't shake the sadness he was feeling, couldn't stop thinking about the program who had helped inspire him to even make it this far, a program that didn't live to see this day…
When his friend looked up at him, it was impossible to not notice the pain that was written on his face. Slowly he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his gaze fixed directly on him. For a moment, it felt as if his gaze could de-rezz him because it was so filled with hurt, with sadness, with unchecked anger. "Tron," he said, his voice revealing the nature of his pain, "You want to know what these lines are?"
Without receiving an affirmative, his friend continued anyway, "Every line represents a cycle I've been stuck here. From my calculations, every cycle I've been here, I've de-rezzed at least 5 programs."
"Ram," he began, but his voice caught in his throat, and he couldn't continue. The wall was covered with lines, more lines, he knew, than his own wall would have if he had been keeping track. For a moment, an agonizing silence descended on them. When Ram spoke again, his voice had regained a slight bit of his prior hopefulness, "Tron, I was made to help people. I'm going to do that again…some cycle… I just have to keep fighting…like…like you do."
"You ready to go, man?" Flynn's voice tore him from his thoughts. But the memory remained stored deep in his CPU. Smiling to himself, he knew his old friend would be proud of him. He wasn't as good as it as him, but he was going to help programs and people alike, bring them hope that a better future was in store for them…
He may have been an inferior Gladiator, yes, but he had been a better program, one who truly had what Users called a "heart."